


White Noise

by Himitsu_Uragiri



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pianist, Angst, Character Death, Classical Music, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himitsu_Uragiri/pseuds/Himitsu_Uragiri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, all he heard was the unvarying white noise in the background of the recording; a vast, obtrusive sound. Static that disrupted the solitary notes of the piano keys. But memories were waiting at the edge of things, patiently beckoning for a chance to paint the desolate landscape into a nostalgic meadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> So here's another pianist Midorima au to add to the bulk of pianist Midorima au's. The ambience is practically identical to Monochrome Rainbow (if you read it) I'm terribly sorry for being an unoriginal and boring ass. Anyways, this is intentionally written in an ambiguous way and I don't play any instruments nor am I knowledgeable in the classical music field so I'd like to apologize in advance for any error relating to the subject.  
> Nonetheless I hope you enjoy this because I'm procrastinating from my other long assed one shot and multichapter fic. Oh and comments/kudos/bookmarks are wonderfully delicious cookies that I'd be eternally grateful for. And of course, constructive criticism is very welcomed, I'd like to improve as much as I can. Without further ado, enjoy~

 

 

At first, all he heard was the unvarying white noise in the background of the recording; a vast, obtrusive sound. Static that disrupted the solitary notes of the piano keys. But memories were waiting at the edge of things, patiently beckoning for a chance to paint the desolate  landscape into a nostalgic meadow. Embraced by the warm memory, the static dissolved and the piano cut through with striking clarity once more, as profound and vibrant as the days gone by. The violin interposed, a gentle shrill that greeted the piano with amiable camaraderie. The two instruments conversed and sang a story of remembrance. A saccharine timbre that resonated the intimate chords within his heart. 

He allowed his eyelids to fall shut as he traced the smooth ivory keys. Fingers follow every press of the wooden hammer on metal strings with a familiarity akin to instinctive reflex. He heard not two but one piano playing, the violin whispering soft affections in the background. Lush red velvet curtains drew open to a stage. Their stage. 

* * *

 

 

Specks of dust drifted idly across the cloistered atmosphere, sparkling aureate like golden snow by the evening sunlight. Their story began there, in the forgotten music room of an average high school. They met, whether a chance encounter or preordained by the whimsical fates, they knew not. Each boy only knew of themselves, busy tending to their own scars. They were similar and yet, as different as the sun and moon. One harboured forsaken dreams while the other sought vainly for a far-fetched reality. 

Midorima Shintarou, a prodigious pianist since his tender childhood, grown into an adolescent that prioritized studies over everything else. 

Takao Kazunari, a former musician of middling talent, now reduced to an average, monotonous high school student. 

It was the grand piano that called upon them, lacquered black wood reflecting light and silver strings glistening like fractured waves; a beacon in the aimless ocean of lost things. Drawn together by the instrument of solace and despair, an unseen intricate string was weaved, indisputably connecting two wondering souls. 

Takao found the tall figure mesmerizing, gracefully long limbs and slender fingers scrupulously taped. The reticent attitude that accompanied the unusual dependency on items deemed to being good fortune as announced by a diurnal morning telecast was intriguing. Takao couldn't help but laugh at the conspicuously pink typewriter - a weighty looking thing - the green haired teen insisted on carrying in his arms to maximize the output of his fated luck. Perhaps, his attentive silver blue eyes had seen it at that very moment, the reliance on worldly things to achieve an equilibrium where scarce self confidence could not be grasped. 

Midorima refused companionship of any nature, avoided people in general. He viewed the black haired youth that bubbled with a certain eccentric charm as nothing more than a nuisance. A fact he made known to the boy with prominent hostility. But Takao was unfazed. Light irises regarded him with a curious glint, a neutral gesture that unsettled him. 

Neither left despite the unfavourable atmosphere, the piano sat quietly between the two. The spring breeze composed a story in that dusty, forgotten room. The two stray youths the protagonists in the sentimental tale of rediscovering music, together. The piano, their only witness. 

Everyday the unwilling pair found company in each other in the quiet world of the neglected music room at the corner of the school. A repetitive scene that bypassed any written script in terms of hilarity as Takao pestered Midorima while he read was played out, especially when a certain sobriquet was in use. The raven haired boy knew of Midorima's gilded past of achievements. A famous prodigy  revered by numerous musicians young and old. A young boy who disappeared from the stage after an abandoned recital. A question that Takao never allowed past his lips. A small act of kind consideration the taller male was mutely grateful for. Midorima knew nothing of the energetic teen but he could tolerate his noisy company at the best of times. 

Takao was not a being accustomed to prolonged silence, constantly craving for the disruption of sound waves; of music. On the other hand, Midorima was a being for whom one had to translate his actions as they were seldom accompanied by words. The green haired male lived in a quite world, a disconnected space born and eroded by seclusion. Where words could not reach, music perhaps had the ability to travel past the impressive borders guarded by wary walls. 

One cool evening, Takao sat on the stool in front of the quiet piano and awakened the dusty, unused chords. It sounded terrible, like a blundering elephant attempting the ballet. The piano required tuning, his tempo was scattered everywhere; music without any semblance of tune. He played freely, formless and uninhibited. The loud off-key pings and pongs grated on Midorima's sensitized ears. 

"Will you stop that racket? It's irritating. I am trying to read here," he snapped, irritation kindled within burning emerald pools. 

"Then go to another room. This is the music room, I'm allowed to make noise," Takao replied. 

"That's not how you play the piano." It was a pathetic attempt at refutation. 

The black haired boy ignored him, eyes kept close and fingers waltzing across black and white ivory. Impatience growing with every random inconsistent note, Midorima  approached the piano, looming over the smaller teen. 

"Move aside, you're playing it wrong," the male announced, unravelling the taping on his fingers. A habit from his childhood he could never quite dispel  despite having given up on the piano. 

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing as the squeezed together on the cramped stool. Their knees bumped as Midorima reached for the pedals and their fingers overlapped on the keys. Both hearts sped up in unison at the close contact. Clearing his throat, the bespectacled male played from memory. Undeterred by the absence of a score sheet, he played Mozart's Symphony No. 40 with effortless grace, as though he never stopped for a day. The piano greeted him with the familiarity of an old compatriot, forming a perfect rhythm. 

Music encroached upon the silence, bursting out through the open window and carried to the distant glowing horizon by the wind. Takao watched, starry-eyed, transfixed until the very last tap and shuddered exhale of the piano. A pleasant warmth had begun to spread from where their shoulders touched. 

"The piano needs to be tuned," Midorima confirmed, adjusting his spectacles. 

He was slightly out of breath, his body unable to keep up with the sudden exertion and exhilaration. It had been a while since he touched a piano. 

" Shin- chan, let's play together!" the raven haired teen suggested, flashing a toothy grin. 

And they did. 

It was a slow, gradual ascent up the uneven steps of trust. Each step tentative, weary and burdened by the misjudged steps of the past. But they persisted, one foot at a time, hands intertwined for comfort and encouragement. They formed an unbreakable bond of companionship, partnership and perhaps, something a little more special that neither expected but welcomed nonetheless. Tender moments where their lips graze, sharing the gentlest of kisses with their fingers laced in the shade below the window. 

They started off searching for normality, where they believed they could forget about music, about the resonance of ballads. Convince their minds to abandon lines of sonatas they had inadvertently committed to memory. A simple wish of wanting to live a life without piles of sorrow and burning regrets. Instead, they found each other; stuck in the place where they could not entirely cross the borderline and leave the only fondness they knew of behind. But through their mutual yearning for lost passions, they discovered the world of music anew. A dazzlingly beautiful sound that reached into the depths of their hearts and buried itself there with the finality of forever. 

Midorima learned to accept a partner, learned to trust Takao. For the first time, he recounted the story of how and why he abandoned the piano he held so dearly. A secret he had so desperately guarded poured out in rivulets. Takao's body leaning on him, warm and comforting through out the retelling . 

It was on the day of an important recital where a judgemental crowd awaited on the cushioned seats of  the  auditorium. A large space where the sound of a single pin dropping would echo through the entire room, a single mistake heard by hundreds. Young Midorima was one leap away from reaching the pinnacle on the mountain of fame and recognition, dangling precariously by a thin rope, sweaty palms clutching desperately at the unforgivingly sharp and slippery rocks. 

He was to play a solo with an accompaniment. A success would guarantee a bright future. However, what was to be a wond rously  pivotal recital crashed down on his young heart and he fell into the abyss of hopelessness. He did not play at his turn. The rules were against him. The absence of his partner an ultimate  betrayal until the very end and even after; the seats long gone cold since the last of the audience vacated the auditorium. 

Disappointment shone evidently in the eyes of his tutor, parents, friends and neighbours. Everyone. Even the media was merciless with their head titles and printed criticisms. 

Midorima had confronted the person he called a friend. The person who valiantly offered to play as his accompaniment all those months ago. 

"As if I would be your stepping stone. I was never your friend." 

Such contemptible words were delivered in a low voice, seething with narrowed eyes and clenched fists. 

All the hours he had spent perfecting his play with the piano were for nought. The friends and acquaintances he acquired left him to simmer in his misery alone. Shallow bonds easily cast aside. The people who once regarded him highly now scorned him at every chance. No composition could reflect the turmoil that raged within him. The world of music abandoned him. And he, abandoned it in turn. 

He decided to begin anew. Transferring to a distant school, Midorima devoted himself to studies. Exams were clear cut. A simple solution waiting at the end of every mind boggling question. As was Oha-Asa, a revered being that guaranteed an expectation of what was to come so he need not fear the day ahead. 

However, there were some things he could not forget, things he could not stop. His young self had taken to taping his precious fingers as not to harm him fingers and thus his play. And he still did. Every morning, religiously, regretfully. A diminutive unconscious hope in the deepest recesses of his mind, hoping that maybe one day he would be able to play again. To see the world behind his eyelids as the passionate sounds of the piano enveloped him, gently like a mother's embrace. One day. 

With Midorima, Takao shared an irreplaceable part of himself. He recalled balmy afternoons seated by his grandmother's side as she played one composition after another on the upright piano. Afternoons where the delicious fragrance of his favourite cinnamon rolls baking in the oven, tantalizingly surround ed  them, their teas gone cold, neglected on the coffee table. The grandparent and grandchild immersed in soothing timbres. A majority of his childhood was spent at his grandmother's cosy apartment, his parents preoccupied with their ambitious careers. 

The dry spindly fingers were awkward with rheumatics but they never forgot the hours of flexing out music and glided as elegantly and fluidly over the piano keys as ever. The amiable lady had played in an orchestra during her youthful days. Travelling from one town to the next and once, over the salty oceans to Australia. It was the highlight of her reminiscent tales. Through the shared moments with his grandmother, he fell in love with classical music. The gentle eloquence that spoke of the heart without a need for words. 

The lady of the house had amassed various instruments during her time with the orchestra and over her golden years; brass, strings and percussions alike. She even had a baton she nicked from a conductor she fancied. It was from that roomful of jumbled instruments that the old woman procured the violin from. The varnish shone like a relic from a king's hidden treasure trove and Takao treated it as such. It was conveniently child size and he was allowed to bring it home, which he eagerly did, practicing the basics of what his grandmother taught him. 

Pachelbel's Canon in D was the first song they played together. The elation he felt then lasted well over a week. Unfortunately, it wasn't long after that that his grandmother passed away of old age. The piano, the instruments, the apartment and everything in it was sold off, the miniature bonzai tree disposed of. Takao watched them go, until all that was left was an empty apartment, a gaping void. His small hands gripped desperately at the violin case, at the precious memories of his grandmother . 

Takao begged his parents to allow him to take music lessons. There, sounds were shaped into symbols. The clefs, dots and lines he could not read but knew the timbre by heart were named. It was strange. With his grandmother, he could play however he pleased, but with his instructor, there was an endless scroll listing the do's and don't s. There were postures to keep, styles and rules to follow. It was an unknown, overwhelming world of ethics he could not quite keep up with. Takao was not accustomed to playing from a music sheet. He played from sound alone, recognizing the A's and D's from their pitch. His instructor however, disagreed; made him sit in a corner to reflect upon his mistakes. Mistakes his childish rationale could not comprehend. 

Nonetheless, he persisted. For his love and passion for classical music. To preserve the memories of his beloved grandmother. Practice defined his days. Even when his shoulders ached, his fingers cramped and their tips raw, he persevered. His young naïve self believed that maybe if he practiced enough, his instructor, parents and friends would come to acknowledge him. And then maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to witness the stage, be it in a group, duet or solo. It mattered not. Just once, he wanted to experience it, the emotions that coursed through his grandmother's veins as she played for an expectant audience. To be slightly more closer to his grandmother. To fill the hole she left at her departure. 

Regrettably, some things were not meant to be. 

"He has no talent." 

The answer from his instructor to his parents' enquiry regarding his progress. 

Then, the music stopped. 

"It's a waste of time and money."

"Studies are more important." 

Reasons, excuses he barely heard but numbly accepted, struggling to keep his lips curved upwards. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was not meant to play the violin. 

" Play for me."  It was not a request but a demand. 

"Eh?"

"The violin. I want to hear you play it." 

The large teddy bear on Takao's lap -  Midorima's  lucky item of the day - was grasped tightly, knuckles turning white from the force. The green haired teen eyed the deformed arm of the children's soft toy - cotton bulging to one side from where Takao gripped it - in distaste but made no comment on the mistreatment of his item of luck. 

"It's been awhile. I already for-" 

Sharp emerald eyes bore into his, wordlessly challenging him to finish the sentence. As a fellow musician, Midorima knew it was not easy to forget their own profession. The raven haired boy pinched his lips into a tight smile, eyes downcast he nodded once and nuzzled his face against the soft synthetic fur of the teddy bear. 

The next day, Takao went to school with an additional load. Ignoring the quizzical stare s of his classmates, he swiftly left the class the second the lunch bell tolled. The bespectacled prodigy was there to greet his breathless arrival, green irises glancing briefly at the black violin case. 

"You should eat first,"  Midorima  suggested when the boy remained immobile for a minute.

Shaking his head in protest, Takao licked his dry lips, words caught in his throat. With a soft click, the case opened. Smooth varnish winked at him, warm oak a nostalgic sight. Fluidly, Takao fell into position, the weight on his tense shoulders heavy after so long. 

He played, in every ways he was told was wrong, in every way he pleased just like that first afternoon with his grandmother; Pachelbel's Canon in D. Each unhurried draw of the bow a solemn remembrance of forsaken passions and regretful dreams; a high pitched cry longing for days past. 

As the last glassy pitch faded away into nothingness, Takao opened his eyes, unaware of when he had closed his eyes to the world to revisit childhood rooms and bygone moments. He dared a glance at  Midorima's  direction. Wide emerald eyes revealed surprise, an indication that could go both ways. Lowering his gaze, he saw his hands tremble in anticipation of the unknown.

"Takao," he said it gently, deep timbre soothing his frazzled nerves. 

That day, Takao saw a tender smile that took his breath away. 

"Your instructor was wrong about you. I'll prove it to them … and to you."

A statement brimming with confidence. It left him speechless. 

Heart beating erratically, Takao returned his taller counterpart's concerned stare with a lopsided smile; a nervous quirk of the lips. Shrouded by the darkness of the backstage, Midorima dared to reach out for the shorter teen's hand, clasping the smaller and unnaturally cold fingers in his large palm. A mute offer to share his warmth and support. 

"It will be okay. I'm here."

Gratefully, the boy squeezed back, the urgent activity around them dissolved into a mumble. He let out an air of nerves. 

"Let's do this," head held up high,his eyes shone with determination and he smiled brightly. 

They heard the announcement of their names and a short applause followed. Together, they crossed the stage, the spotlights blindingly bright. After bowing, they settled into their positions; Midorima on the stool, bare hands hovering over ivory keys and Takao stood a few feet away, violin poised on his shoulder, ironed suit  feeling restrictive. 

Hand still warm from when Midorima held him, he drew the bow, the opening to their performance. Beethoven's Sonata No. 5, in F major, Op. 24, "Spring Sonata", I. Allegro flowed naturally from their fingertips. Notes tingly and in perfect harmony. The air around them shimmered like a  multi -colou red  spectrum, fluctuating with each new verse presented. The sounds of the piano and violin light-spirited. Takao no longer saw an audience of shadowed faces, instead he saw the vibrant world their combined music created. Midorima saw a limitless landscape, the sky illuminated by waves of colours. He saw Takao in the middle, smiling, silver blue eyes sparkling with pure joy. 

They did not emerge as the victors of the competition but they had gained something far more precious than a mere gold medal and worded acclamations. They found each other. They completed each other. 

Their first encounter was not in the dusty music room on the second floor of their high school. Their paths had once crossed before, in the innocent years of their naivety. One recalls while the other does not. Takao did not mind though, nor did he burden the green haired prodigy with such unwarranted blames. With a shrug and a lazy wave of the hand, he easily dismissed his own insignificance. 

Takao had been granted the opportunity to play as an accompaniment - a last resort when the other more preferred candidates fell ill with  diarrhea  after eating kimchi the previous night - for a pianist from his school. It was merely the preliminaries, an elimination round to cast off the unworthy before the actual main event with its expectant spectators. Regardless, various talents had gathered in the auditori um  and one such talent by the name Midorima Shintarou was also attending as a participant. A quite boy who wordlessly took the breath away from all those present, the music from the piano profound and beguiling . Music that was inherently beautiful. 

"That was amazing!" an enthralled Takao Kazunari had approached the aloof pianist, beaming a gap-toothed - there was a hint of a small new stub growing - smile. 

The bespectacled boy nodded, face impassive. To him, it was simply another compliment from another person vying for the attention of a renowned  prodigy to brag about at a later date. 

"I'll be playing next!" he had announced excitedly, oblivious to the scowl etched onto the other boy's face. 

"Then you shouldn't be here. You should be on stage preparing," Midorima reprimanded him. 

Laughing, Takao nodded his agreement and went on his merry way back to his skittish last minute partner. Takao and his pianist never made it past the preliminary round. Naturally, the blame fell on him but he did not mind. He had watched  _the_  Midorima Shintarou play in person and even talked to him. That was an amazing experience as it is . And perhaps, one day they would meet again. Maybe they'd even chance to play together, for fun, if the fates were to be kind. 

Looking down at his trembling hands, he saw they were stained crimson with blood. His blood? No. The heavy body on his lap lay limp, bleeding life meaninglessly into the drain. He could feel the warmth of his essence, his blood, seeping into the fabric of his trousers; a stain that would haunt him for nights to come . 

Something had gone terribly wrong. His mind was in a jumbled mess of thoughts and questions where the answers eluded him. Each one trying to out - voice the other, each one louder than the previous. He had just said, "See you tomorrow," merely moments ago. What had transpired in that brief, fractured minute? 

There were people gathered around them, bystanders to an unfortunate scene. He vaguely hear voices, shouts. Someone may have said the words "Ambulance," and "Accident." He was not certain. The voices were distorted, muddled, as though he were submerged underwater while the people on the surface attempted to speak to him. But the sounds were unable to travel through the dense  med iu m . 

The dying boy in his arms jerked, a breathless fish struggling for life out of the sea. The boy said something, a whisper tinged in blood, but he had already lost his hearing then. 

* * *

 

The lush curtains drew close to his remembrance. He opens his eyes to shining ivory keys, tears streaming steadily down his cheeks. The sounds of the piano and violin have  ceased. White noise returns even as the recording clicks to a stop, having reached the end of memory's lane. He presses the last key, a singular note that dragged into the distance, emanating sorrow. The heavy sound lingers perfectly. Of course, it was all in his head. After all, he could not truly hear anymore. Not after that day. Static is all that caresses his eardrums. 

He dearly wish he could haveread lips then. Perhaps he would have captured the departing words and treasure them in his heart for all of eternity. A closure of sorts. Regrettably, he did not. But from the foggy memory he could pretend. Shape the movements of his beloved lips into something favourable. 

" Kazunari, thank you." 

**Author's Note:**

> ps. if you are confused;  
> Basically Takao playing the piano as he goes down memory lane, reliving his time with the deceased Midorima. And due to the traumatic experience of watching his lover die, he has kinda sorta lost his hearing - he only hears white noise.  
> I am sorrynotsorry.


End file.
